


Lifeline (aka: As Far As Dates Go, This One's Pretty Odd)

by antiheroics



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, POV First Person, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiheroics/pseuds/antiheroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU (human names used); Suicidal Lovino Vargas makes a suicide pact online with equally suicidal Antonio. They meet, they get mistaken for a couple out on a date, they drink a lot of badtasting vodka, and Lovino begins to wonder not so much if he wants to kill himself, but if he wants Antonio to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifeline (aka: As Far As Dates Go, This One's Pretty Odd)

**_December 28, 20XX (5:00pm)_**  
   
Looking for a suicide forum, and not the we-can-help-you-change-your-mind kind, but a legitimate I-want-to-die-but-am-too-fucking-chicken-to-do-it-alone forum takes more than just a simple Google search. In fact, looking for the perfect combination of the words _suicide_ and _forum_ takes longer than turning one wall of your apartment into a pretentious abstract mural. I know; I’ve done both.  
   
But finally, the perfect site appears. Ironically it’s called, of all things, _Lifeline_.  
   
_Click._ Sign-up form, complete. _Click_. Validated email, done. _Post a new forum?_  
   
I crack my knuckles, trying to remember the message I’ve been composing in my head over and over for the past two weeks. Then I bend over my keyboard and type furiously, trying my best to do it as quickly as possible while stubbornly using only two fingers.  
   
_Submit?_  
   
_Click_.  
   


\---

 

 **_(6:00 pm)_  
**  
   
   


> lovino_v: _Looking for suicide partner because I’ve been thinking of killing myself (obvs) and am too fucking chicken to do it alone.  Preferably someone in his twenties. NO FUCKING MINORS ALLOWED. I don’t want to be responsible for some kid’s death. Also, I’m going to die by my rules. If you don’t want that then better fuck off._

 

   
   
It takes several backspaces and curses at my snail-like internet connection but soon my entry is up. I read it over and over again, and do so for an hour. It doesn’t sound that bad at all, although I have to admit it had sounded better in my head.  
   
_One new notification._  
   
I jump, shocked from my reverie by the beep signaling the notification’s arrival. I’m suddenly all too aware of my heart, racing rapidly inside my chest, making its presence more felt. _Are you sure you want this, Lovino? Are you sure you don’t want to feel this heart in you anymore?_  
   
Fuck off, inner-Lovino-voice. Of course I know what I’m doing. I _want_ this.  
   
This doesn’t prevent my hand from shaking though, as I moved my mouse to click on the link.  
   
   


\---

 

> tomato_man: _Hello lovino_v. I’m tomato_man and I just wanted to say, count me in! I’m totally up to whatever you want, def not picky so we’ll get along just fine. Also, I’m not a minor (twenty-five, actually)!_  
>     
>  lovino_v: _I’m not picky either so you’ll do. How about we meet tomorrow? I’ll be outside Café Isabel at 3pm. I’ll be wearing a green shirt, a brown cap and sunglasses. Fine with you?_  
>     
>  tomato_man: _Sure, I know that place! I’ll be wearing a red shirt and uhmm, I don’t really have anything else distinct hehe. But I’m pretty you’ll be arriving earlier than me anyways so I’ll just look for you! See you there!_

  
   
   
Somehow, I can’t shake off the funny feeling that this all reads like a meet-up for a blind date (not that I would know; I’ve never been to any, and it’s too late to start going to one now). I roll my eyes inwardly at myself- _shit Lovino, isn’t it too late to be thinking of blind dates now_ -as I shut down my laptop.  
   


\---

 **  
_December 29, 20XX (4:00pm)_  
**  
   
   
I am sitting at an alfresco table at Café Isabel, the teal-and white striped umbrella shielding me, though barely, from the harsh rays of the midday sun. It is almost four in the afternoon and when tomato_man said he will be late, well, it seems like he really meant it.  
   
I pull my cap over my face, sliding even lower down my seat. I don’t really mind waiting; I would rather have tomato_man look all over the café for me than go through the embarrassing ordeal myself. Imagine tapping each man who happened to be wearing red on the shoulder, asking them one by one: _Hello there! Are you tomato-underscore-man? Are you here to meet the stranger who wanted to die but was too fucking chicken to do it alone?_  
   
I continue imagining various scenarios, one different reaction after another- _Are you sure you’re alright son? I know this good psychiatrist, maybe he can help you. See this pretty girl sitting with me? She’s a whore but she’s_ my _whore. I can lend her to you; let her kiss your problems goodbye, literally! Haha-_ when I feel a light tap on my own shoulder. I jump slightly.  
   
I hear a rich voice- _like caramel, smooth and sweet_ -from behind me. “Are you lovino-underscore-v? The one from Lifeline?”  
   
“Well, yeah. And you’re fucking late,” I reply before turning around. I am immediately struck, no _blinded_ , by his bright green eyes- _like emeralds_ -smiling down at me. He stands with his back towards the sun, its light surrounding him and making him glow like some fantastic angel just passing by this small cafe en-route to heaven. It isn’t a far-fetched picture, especially when you factor in the huge grin spread across his face, warm and kind.  
   
He definitely does not look like someone who wants to kill himself, that’s for sure.  
   
“A-are you tomato-underscore-man?” I ask, slipping into a stutter.  
   
“Yes, that’s me!” he replies cheerfully. “But you must call me Antonio! Or Toni. Whichever you prefer.” Before I ask him to, he walks over and pulls a seat across mine, still not pausing, not even to breathe, from his cheerful chatter. “I assume your name is Lovino, from your forum handle. Though I may be mistaken, I know some people make up fake names online. Lovino is a nice name though! I like how it rolls down my tongue. Lovino, Lovino, Lovino.” He laughs a nice pretty caramel laugh.  
   
I do not want to hear about his tongue, especially since involuntary thoughts involving said tongue and the many inappropriate things you can do with it- _like tasting it against mine, I wonder if it will also taste like caramel_?- are starting to run inside my head and no. Now is not the time for this.  
   
_And there might never be a time for that, Lovino. Are you sure you don’t want, don’t_ need _, more time?_  
   
But before I can fully comprehend the question inner-Lovino is asking me, Antonio leans forward across the table and asks me softly:  
   
“So Lovino, how do you want us to die?”  
   
Funnily, I hear myself whispering back, “I don’t know.”  
   
So much for wanting to die by my own rules.  
   


\---

   
Antonio doesn’t seem to mind this lack of plans on my part. Instead, he easily shifts the conversation to other topics. Like a certain Lovino Vargas.  
   
“So Lovino, what’d you do for a living?”  
   
I try to sip my coffee before realizing that my cup is empty. With a furious blush, I signal for more coffee from the waiter before answering Antonio. “I work as an art dealer. I sell other people’s art because mine look like shit and nobody wants to buy shit.”  
   
“I bet your art doesn’t look anything like shit,” Antonio says simply, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. I scrutinize him and realize that he is not merely being polite, that he genuinely thinks I make great art _without even seeing them_. What is fucking _wrong_ with this guy?  
   
“Shut up,” I mumble after a pause, because, really, what else can I say to that?  
   
And then a heavy silence follows, with Antonio just stirring his coffee and I just watching his spoon go round and round and round and wondering, what the hell have I done wrong now? Why is no one talking? And then, before the silence can fully suffocate me, I realize that conversations are pretty much like a game of tennis (not that I’ve ever played in one), and the ball is in my court now.  
   
“So,” I begin but I discover to my horror that my voice is stuck in my throat and when it finally comes, it does so as a husky squeak. I clear my throat noisily-really how many embarrassments can happen to me in a day-before trying again. “So, what do _you_ do for a living?”  
   
Antonio grins widely at me, as if he has been waiting for me to ask this question all along. _Well, if you wanted it so badly, why didn’t you fucking say so?_  “I work at a convenience store, just a small one. I man the cashier, stock the shelves, deliver groceries to old women who can’t get it themselves-basically I’m your all-around guy.”  
   
And so we continue rallying the ball back and forth, from one court to another- _What are your hobbies? Oh I like siestas. Siestas are fucking good. Yes, yes they are! What was the last movie you watched? I’m more of a book person actually-_ until I catch Antonio surreptitiously looking at his watch. I glance at mine too, and I realize that it is more than half-past-six and wow, how did time fly so fucking fast?  
   
“Want to grab a drink?” Antonio asks me.  
   
Though god-no blasphemy intended-knows it’s too early for a drink, I find myself shrugging and saying, “Sure, why not?”  
   
So Antonio stands up, walks over to me and pulls me by my hand off my seat. And I try hard not to notice how his hand feels warm and _right_ in mine but it is hard, oh so _hard_ , and then Antonio pulls me along the busy sidewalk, and we are off.  
   


\---

 

 **_(7:00 pm)_  
**  
   
We finally stop in front of a small, slightly shabby, nightclub, still closed judging from the locked door and the absence of bright lights. I hesitate, wondering if Antonio planned to break his way in, but he answers me by fishing a key out of his pocket.  
   
He dangles it in front of me, that perpetual smile still on his face. “Let’s go!”  
   
We enter, and Antonio leads the way across the empty dance floor, towards the lonely bar at the end of the room. I follow him, clumsily bumping against the chairs and tables crowding the small area. By the time I catch up to him, Antonio is already behind the counter, rummaging through the bottles.  
   
I’m not really the most upright person out there, but that doesn’t mean I’m not at least slightly bothered by how Antonio is casually looking through the stored liquor behind the counter, picking up each bottle, studying it and over-all just acting as if he fucking owns the place. Because key notwithstanding, I sure as fuck am still not convinced that Antonio owns this club.  
   
“The fuck are you doing?” I hiss at him, “Do you even own this place?”  
   
Antonio turns to wink at me. “Don’t worry, my best bro owns this club.” He picks up a pink bottle and shows it to me. “Look, strawberry vodka! You’ve got to try this!”  
   
And before I can reply, Antonio hands the bottle to me then disappears behind the counter, reappearing after a moment with two shot glasses. He wipes them with the edge of his shirt-certainly not hygienic but who the fuck cares-and then places them in between us. He takes the bottle from my arms-because in a supreme moment of Lovino stupidity, it did not occur to me to place it on the counter-uncaps it then pours out the clear liquid. One shot each.  
   
“Cheers!” We clink our glasses together then drink our shot, bottoms up. The vodka tastes like rubbing alcohol-not that I’ve tasted any but I’m pretty sure if I had it would taste like this shit-and strawberries, or at least the sour part.  
   
This may be bad-tasting vodka, but it was definitely strong vodka. My eyes start to water as I feel the alcohol sliding down my throat, burning everything in its path and ending in a fiery pool at the pit of my stomach.  
   
“Another shot?” Antonio asks, apparently not affected by the strength of the liquor we have just downed. I offer my empty cup to him mutely. Today might just be my last chance to get wasted after all.  
   
As he pours more vodka into my cup, I am suddenly aware of footsteps echoing on the empty dance floor, footsteps approaching us faster and faster.  Before I can alert Antonio to this, the stranger suddenly appears behind the counter, his arms wrapped around Antonio’s shoulders. He reminds me of a rabbit the moment I lay my eyes on him: thick white hair and bright red eyes.  
   
A bit of my vodka sloshes out of my glass as Antonio sways slightly because of the added weight of this stranger. “Gilbert!” he greets him cheerfully.  
   
Gilbert laughs. “Who fucking told you to drink my liquor?”  
   
They exchange pleasantries like this for a while, and I content myself with remaining in the background-though I do wish Antonio would get back to filling up my shot glass.  
   
Suddenly, Gilbert turns his eyes towards me. “Hey Antonio, who’s this? Your new boy toy?”  
   
I glare at Gilbert in indignation. _Boy toy, my ass!_ Even without exchanging a single word with him, I have just as easily concluded that Gilbert was a bastard and a fucking asshole.  
   
Antonio finally hands me my shot, and I down it quickly, waiting impatiently for his response. He takes his sweet fucking time with it, actually getting a glass for Gilbert first and filling it up as well with vodka.  
   
Antonio smiles widely at Gilbert. “He’s not my boy toy.” I breathe a sigh of relief.  
   
“We’re out on a date actually!”  
   
I can feel my vodka climbing up my throat; I gag. A date? A _date_? When did this turn into a fucking _date_?  
   
I wonder if Gilbert will believe this one hell of a lie, because honest to god, any half-wit could easily see that Antonio and I were _not_ on a date. But I guess Gilbert must be a half-wit (I should have known) because he laughs loudly upon hearing this and tightens his bear hug around Antonio, who tries to hide that he is half-dead from suffocation by a sheepish grin. “Well shit dude, you should have told me earlier! But a business is a business, and if you and your date plan to stay here beyond eight then you’ll have to pay.”  
   
Antonio carefully extricates himself from Gilbert’s grip. He rounds the counter and is soon beside me, my hand in his. “Then I guess we’ll have to go now,” he tells Gilbert cheerfully. He wheels me away towards the exit.  
   
We are almost out the door when Gilbert calls after us, “I know you carried off two bottles of vodka and a bottle of wine with you, Toni! You’ll have to pay for that tomorrow!” I glance at Antonio, but he only winks at me. Then, my hand still in his, we dash madly out of the door and into the crisp winter air.  
   


\---

 

 **_(8:00 pm)_  
**  
   
The winter air is sharp and cold against my skin, but my hand, though gloveless, is warm inside Antonio’s similarly gloveless hand. In his other hand is the handle of a plastic bag, glass bottles clinking inside it. As Antonio has not spoken a word since our time at the bar, I let myself be pulled along silently by him, wondering where in the world he was going to take me.  
   
_We’re out on a date actually!_  
   
Even if I tell myself that ‘out on a date’ was probably the only plausible excuse Antonio could make up to cover ‘out planning our suicide pact’, I still feel an involuntary thrill run through my spine.  Out on a date…were we really that convincing, so convincing that someone would actually believe that blatant lie? I think back to the coffee shop, wondering what those who saw us thought of us. Did they also think Antonio and I were out on a date? I had always lived my life without giving a fuck to what others thought about me but I suddenly found myself wanting so badly to know what the waiters, the customers, the passers-by, hell what _everyone_ was thinking about Antonio and I.  
   
In normal circumstances, maybe Antonio and I could go out on a date. A real date, not the fucked-up one we were on at the moment.  
   
_But then Lovino, under normal circumstances, maybe you would have never met Antonio._  
   
An involuntary sigh escapes from me. The world is one fucked up place.  
   


\---

 

We finally stop in front of another building, this time a cold gray one.  
   
“Welcome to my apartment,” Antonio says in a tone too cheery for the drab environment he was leading me to.  
   
As we ride the elevator up on our way to his home, Antonio is back again to his usual chatty self.  
   
“I’ve lived here for several months actually. Ever since I got my job at the store,” he tells me, as we step off the elevator and land on the eight floor, the last floor of this building. “There’s a really nice view when you’re standing out on the balcony, especially at night! You should see it!”  
   
“Though,” he continues as he fumbles for his keys in front of room 805, “I can’t assure you that the inside of my home is just as nice.” He laughs sheepishly as he finally opens the door to his room.  
   
Antonio’s apartment isn’t as bad as he makes it out to be. It is actually a _hundred_ times neater than my apartment. Sure clothes that belong to the hamper are hanging on the armrest of the couch instead, and the kitchen sink is filled to the brim with dirty dishes, but in my apartment, you couldn’t even see the carpet anymore.  
   
“Want to drink in my bedroom?” Antonio asks me casually.  
   
_Sure why not? That’s totally cool, totally normal. Yes, fucking normal. Just a guy inviting a fellow guy inside his bedroom._ I repeat this over and over in my head like a mantra, even as my imagination starts running out of control inside my head, and my heart stubbornly decides to beat more rapidly than usual, so fast it feels like my chest is about to explode.  
   


\---

 

No, nothing happens between us. Let’s get that fact straight first, though it does risk my sounding like a total pervert. But then, what did Antonio, what did _anyone else_ , expect me to think? You don’t just get invited to a bedroom.  
   
Or maybe that really is totally normal. I’m not fucking sure anymore.  
   
What happens instead is this:  
   
Antonio’s bedroom is just one bed, a bare desk, a built-in closet and noting more. However, the balcony is there as well, and even if just through the closed sliding door, I could still see that Antonio was right: the view out there was indeed _gorgeous_.  
   
We are done with our only bottle of red wine-cheap, nothing fancy, but ultimately very delicious-and are about to start with the vodka when I decide that if we continued on like this on an empty stomach, we would be knocked out and wasted even before the evening was over. So I take the liberty of looking through Antonio’s kitchen, searching for food.  
   
But to my disappointment, there is nothing in there but a whole bunch of instant cup noodles. I swore to myself ever since I was a little kid growing up in a kitchen always filled with the delicious smells of home-cooked food that I would _never_ eat anything instant because instant is shorthand for ‘tastes like shit’, and real food is still, is always the best. But I guess desperate times call for desperate measures, and I sure was desperate and contemplating cannibalism. I boil a kettle of water and bring this plus the noodles back to Antonio’s bedroom.  
   
“Shit, Antonio, you should fucking restock your kitchen! And you say you work at a convenience store.” I say loudly as I enter Antonio’s bedroom, but Antonio is not there drinking. I place my haul on the floor beside the liquor, and wonder where he has gone. I am almost convinced that he is just out taking a piss, and that there is nothing to worry about when I notice a figure out on the balcony. I get back on my feet and follow Antonio outside.  
   
“Do you mind?” he asks me as soon as I enter the balcony, raising the cigarette dangling by his fingers slightly. I shrug; I don’t really care.  
   
I stand beside him, looking out at the night sky. The horizon is dotted by a million pin-prick lights, blurred only by the chilly fog. They look like stars, and I wonder where the lights end and the stars begin.  
   
Antonio, however, is not looking ahead but downwards. I follow his gaze but there is nothing to be seen but depth and darkness and a trail of ash falling from his lighted cigarette.  
   
“Are you afraid of heights?” His voice is a soft murmur, more of a breath than a whisper, and I wonder whether he is talking to me or to himself.  
   
I answer him anyways. “I’m not. I’m not fucking afraid of anything.”  
   
He raises an eyebrow at me. “And yet you want to escape this world?”  
   
He got me but I don’t let him see it. I keep my eyes firmly downward, following the ashes as it falls down down down, _to where?_  
   
“Sometimes I stand here, and I get this urge to just _jump_ ,  but I never get the courage to do it.” Antonio tells me casually. He continues smoking his cigarette, the smoke rising in thin wisps as the ashes continue to fall.  
   
“Don’t you remember?” I tell him sharply. “We’re going to go about this suicide by _my_ rules.”  
   
“I didn’t even know we were still talking about that,” Antonio jokes but I ignore him.  
   
“December 31 st, I go to your apartment, we get wasted then we go out here and jump off. Together,” I have no idea why I felt the need to add the last word, but I don’t take it back (and I can’t anyways). “Before the countdown ends, we’re out of this motherfucking world. So, am I fanfuckingtastic or what?”  
   
I belatedly realize that I have just gone and shamelessly invited myself back to Antonio’s apartment. But Antonio doesn’t seem to mind. He continues silently smoking for a while, and I am almost furious with impatience when he finally answers me.  
   
Even with only half his face visible to me, I could still see that smile, now familiar to me, playing on his lips.  
   
“You are fantastic, Lovino.”  
   


\---

 

 **_December 30, 20XX (12:00 am)_  
**  
   
We are both drunk even before the first stroke of midnight.  
   
The floor become more and more crooked as I stare down at it, and I attempt to straighten it by placing both my hands firmly flat on both sides of me. But the floor continues to be crooked, and I sigh and give up.  
   
In front of me, Antonio is swaying back and forth, forward and backwards. I do not even have time to wonder if he will fall, because soon enough he does, towards me.  
   
And inside my heart pounds deafeningly, and all I can think of is _close your eyes and kiss him_ except it is totally inappropriate and probably highly impossible-  
   
-and Antonio has now landed on my lap, though thankfully it is his chest, and not his face, lying face down on it.  
   
I can feel my own eyes feeling heavier and heavier, so I close my eyes and lie on the floor, adjusting Antonio’s head so it rolls over to my chest.  
   
Then I fall asleep.  
   


\---

 

 **_(4:00 am)_  
**  
   
I dream of an angel that night.  
   
An angel, sunlit and bright, so bright, that I could see nothing of his features but his eyes, green and blindingly beautiful- _like emeralds_.  
   
He stands in front of me, wings spread out in their entire enormity, white and beautiful. But he looks at them sadly, then back at me, and I plainly hear him order me _take off my wings_.  
   
And I tell him _are you fucking kidding me_ but I look down and realize that I am holding huge shears, bigger than any garden shears I’ve ever seen in my life, and they are caked with feathers and blood, and I realize that the deed is done.  
   
And when I look up fearfully, the angel is still standing before me, but now he has lost his wings. He is now just a man _but he is still every bit an angel to me._  
   
Then suddenly he turns his back to me and runs out towards a familiar-looking balcony, and I run after him. Even if every step feels slow and dragging, like I am running underwater, I manage to catch up to him. I find him standing impossibly balanced on the narrow railing. He turns to me and smiles, and then suddenly, he jumps. And he falls down down down, and I try to grab on to him but nothing is left on my fingers but ashes, and even these blow away.  
   


\---

   
I sit up suddenly, and for a moment I think that I can still feel ashes between my fingers. It takes me a moment to realize that all of it was just a dream, albeit a strange one, and it takes me even longer to notice that the weight on my chest that was Antonio is gone.  
   
I look around the room but it is very dark, and it takes me a moment to adjust my eyes to it. My eyes fall upon a silhouette sitting a few steps away from my foot, his face only visible every now and then by the red light of his cigarette.  
   
“You should go back to sleep,” Antonio murmurs. “It’s barely dawn.”  
   
“And how about you?” I retort.  
   
He shrugs. “Can’t.”  
   
“Then me too,” I say with finality. There is a moment of silence between us, with me just watching his hand move up and down gracefully, to bring the cigarette to his lips.  
   
Finally Antonio speaks again. “Why do you want to do this, Lovino?”  
   
“Do what?”  
   
“Kill yourself.”  
   
I am not prepared for his question, and I sit in stunned silence, wondering how to start. My life in essence is like a tower of cards, teetering always, waiting for that one card that would bring it all tumbling down. I decide to tell Antonio what the last card was.  
   
“I got rejected from art school,” I tell him before I realize how painfully _shallow_ it sounds, so the other cards come unbidden out of my mouth anyways.  
   
“All my life I feel like I’m just one big rejection you know,” I speak rapidly, words tumbling one after the other in succession, like a broken dam that just can’t be stopped anymore. “Hell, even my _mother_ fucking rejects me for all I know. My _nonno_ told me she died after giving birth to my brother and me. Maybe she had an inkling of what kind of failure I would be and decided to spare herself.” I shrug. “I guess the world only needs one Vargas and that’s Feliciano,” I tell him even if Antonio doesn’t know who the fuck Feliciano is _and if he did, would he still be here with me, silently smoking a few inches from my feet? Or would he choose_ him _instead, just like what everyone else has done?_  
   
“So you want to spare the world as well?” Antonio asks softly.  
   
“Of course not!” I reply hotly. “What do I care about the world? The world doesn’t give a fuck about me. Hell, I don’t give a fuck about them either.” I inhale deeply but nothing comes out but ragged furious breaths. “I just want to tell the world, well fuck you. I reject you too.”  
   
We sit silently after that, I still burning with anger and hatred and a million other things, and Antonio just sitting there, smoking his cigarette.  
   
Finally I ask him, “Well, why do _you_ want to die?”  
   
His cigarette stops midway to his mouth, and by its red embers I can see a bitter smile disfiguring Antonio’s face.  
   
“Why? You see Lovino, I killed someone once. And you can’t expect me to live with that.”  
   


\---

 

By the red flickering light of the cigarette, I scrutinize Antonio’s face, tried to see the devil he was making himself out to be. But no, even in the dimness, all I can see is Antonio, the man who first appeared in my life as a sunlit angel with a caramel laugh and bright emerald eyes. And so I knew what I had to say.  
   
“I don’t believe you,” I tell him.  
   
Antonio shrugs. “If I tell you my story, will you?”  
   
“Tell me then,” I dare him.  
   
He fumbles around in the dark, finally finding what I can make out by its silhouette as an empty cup of noodles and then drops his finished cigarette in it. I crawl towards him, or at least in his general direction, then sit by his foot, cross legged, like a child waiting for a bedtime story from his _nonna_.  
   
“It was an accident,” he begins, and I interrupt him immediately. “Christ-no blasphemy intended God-but really, _Christ._ And here I was thinking I was in the presence of a fucking axe-crazy murderer.”  
   
Antonio laughs, and suddenly I feel a heaviness in my chest I didn’t even realize was there before dissipating from the welcome sound. “I’m sorry then that I didn’t meet your expectations.”  
   
“Just fucking get on with it, will you?”  
   
“Okay,” Antonio takes a deep breath then begins again.  “As I said, it was an accident. I was going to deliver groceries to this old lady several streets away. I mean, no sweat right? So I was riding my scooter, just driving at a pretty relaxed pace and then this _boy_ suddenly jumps out of nowhere. I tried to swerve, I tried to brake before I could hit him, hell I honestly tried anything I could just so I won’t hit him. But I still did. And he lay there in front of me all bloodied and broken, and shit I swear I honestly went crazy at the sight.”  
   
Antonio pauses at this, probably lost again in the horror of that moment for all I knew, and I fucking wanted to do something, _anything_. Comfort him, give him a hug, _bring out that smile in his voice again that I’ve somehow missed during its less-than-an-hour’s absence_. But I am not a touchy-feely ‘here let me give you a hug’ kind of person, and will never be. So I sit by Antonio’s feet, feeling pretty useless, which isn’t really a new thing if you’re Lovino Vargas.  
   
Finally, he continues his story.  
   
“So, I bring the boy to the hospital. I remember I could still feel his pulse against my chest somehow as I walked in the emergency room so I kept my hopes up. Maybe he would live after all. He did actually, for two days. He was in a coma, and I remember I would come and look at him from outside the window, and I would think _Antonio,_ _look at how small he is. It looks like the bed and all those tubes and machinery they’ve attached to him are drowning him_. And it was all my fault.”  
   
I interrupt him again. “It was a fucking _accident_.”  
   
Antonio stops talking again for a while after this, and I wonder if he has heard me at all. I ponder repeating my statement just in case but he starts talking again, so quietly that I strain to hear him.  
   
“I was there when he died. I was standing outside, watching as they pulled the covers over his tiny body. And then this woman suddenly lunges at me from out of nowhere, sobbing. And this little lady starts pounding her fists against me, and you could tell that she was using all the force she could muster. She wanted to seriously hurt me. And I don’t blame her actually. I remember her telling me over and over again _How could you do this to my baby? You should have died instead!._ Over and over again.” In the darkness, I can see a faint smile cross his lips, but it isn’t the smile I wanted to see. It’s a tired smile, _but tired of what? Of staying up all night? Or of carrying a heavy burden of guilt, the burden of a life lost?_ “And I guess it stuck to me after all these months. Maybe I had disrupted some heavenly cycle of life and death. Maybe I had taken a life that wasn’t supposed to be taken yet.”  
   
“It was an _accident_ ,” I repeat emphatically. “And besides, don’t fucking kill yourself just because someone told you to. I expected more from you, bastard.”  
   
He laughs. “Anyways, you should go back to sleep, Lovino. I mean, I know this isn’t exactly the best bedtime story but you have to sleep. I bet you’re tired.”  
   
“No,” I protest childishly, but my eyes feel like lead, and everything is slowly becoming out of focus. So I close my eyes, but not without telling Antonio, “We will continue this conversation tomorrow. And remember, it was a fucking _accident_.” For a moment I can see the smile on Antonio’s lips growing softer, and I think I smile myself, but maybe it is just my imagination.  
   
And then I curl up on the floor by his feet and fall asleep.  
   


\---

  **  
_(6:30 am)_  
**  
   
I wake up feeling like shit, to put it mildly.  
   
I sit up and immediately feel my head threatening to burst from sheer pain. Something cottony seems to be stuck in my throat, and my stomach feels strangely acidic. I bury my head in my hands and groan, and it takes me a while to even attempt looking up and around at my surroundings.  
   
It takes me several disoriented minutes to remember that I am not in my apartment. In fact, I am in the bedroom of a virtual stranger _except not anymore really, if you consider the fact that we have practically exchanged melodramatic life stories the night-slash-morning before_.  
   
The stranger in question, Antonio, sits cross-legged by my feet, grinning at me. He looks as if he has not just drank two fucking bottles of the strongest  vodka ever known to man the night before, though his blood-shot eyes betray this fact. I wonder secretly if he had even slept at all.  
   
He stands up with some difficulty, but at least manages to do so without stumbling over his feet. It takes me several attempts to do the same, and when I finally succeed, the cottony-acidic feeling in my throat threatens to rise up and out of me. I quickly clamp a hand over my mouth and look up helplessly at Antonio.  
   
Antonio is immediately at my side, his eyes filled with concern. His arm waves vaguely around, probably wondering where best to put it given the situation. I spare him by swatting away his arm. He looks at me, wide-eyed in surprise. I bring my hand away from my mouth hesitantly. Thankfully, I don’t throw up all over the bare floor though the acidic taste is still in my throat up to my mouth.  
   
“Bathroom,” I groan.  
   
Antonio points out the door. “Straight across, door beside the kitchen. Do you need help going there?”  
   
I shake my head in the negative. The last thing I need is for someone to watch me while I go through the embarrassing process of throwing up all the alcoholic crap I swallowed like there was no goddamn tomorrow last night.  
   
I run to the bathroom and collapse beside the toilet bowl, my knees hitting the cold tiles a little too hard-I will probably bruise later. However, nothing comes out but dry heaves, even if my stomach continues feeling queasier than ever. I hate doing this, but if I don’t do it now, I don’t know how I’ll ever get home without being sick all over Antonio’s apartment first, so I stick two fingers down my throat and throw up.  
   
And I don’t know why, but as my throat burns, and my mouth starts tasting like acid and sour vodka, I start thinking of a million strange things, maybe to distract myself from the smell, the taste, the feel of it all. And my mind decides to think of Antonio, and of last night, of _I killed someone, Lovino_ , and _You should have died instead._ You should have died instead, over and over again. If relentless rain could pound a stubborn rock into a million tiny pieces, could a more fragile heart collapse under the pounding of shrapnel-like words?  
   
_You should have died instead._  
   


\---

  
I sit for what I think is just a few seconds on the tiled floor, lost in my thoughts, but it must have been a long while because soon I hear an urgent pounding on the door and Antonio calling me, “Lovino, are you alright? Do you need help?”  
   
“Dammit Antonio, stop shouting! It hurts,” I yell back. Which is definitely true; my head feels near-exploding from even the slightest noise.  
   
“Sorry about that!” Antonio shouts back, and then I hear his retreating footsteps. I stand up and flush the toilet without looking inside it-though I still see some of the pink shit I just threw up anyways. Even after flushing, the stench is still there but there is no detergent in sight, and I can’t be bothered in my current state to fucking get some. I stand in front of the sink and splash my face with cold water. My eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, and my whole face looks pallid, almost zombie-like.  _This is probably how I’ll look once I’m dead._ I think morbidly. That is, if I’m not broken enough to begin with, after my skydiving rendezvous tomorrow with Antonio.  
   
An involuntary shiver suddenly runs down my spine. But I credit it to a cold draft and finally leave the bathroom.  
   


\---

 **  
_(7:00 am)_  
**  
   
“Breakfast?” Antonio asks me as I enter the kitchen. The smell of frying ham and eggs wafts through the room but it only succeeds in making me feel queasy again.  
   
“No, thanks,” I reply.  
   
“Not even toast?”  
   
“Well, I guess toast is alright,” I relent. “Though I have to leave anyways. I still have things to do at home.” Which is not true, but I’m starting to feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome in Antonio’s apartment.  
   
He pops two slices of bread in the toaster. “Don’t do it,” he suddenly says quietly, so quietly that I could think he was talking to the toaster.  
   
“Don’t do what?” I ask even if I knew perfectly well what he was talking about.  
   
“You don’t have to do…this,” Antonio continues vaguely. “I can do it by myself.”  
   
A thread already pulled taut inside me suddenly snaps, a thread I never even noticed existed. “Oh so you think only your reason is fucking noble enough to warrant killing yourself, is that it?” I spit out venomously. “Oh look at Lovino Vargas, after tripping over a pebble, he suddenly fucking wants to kill himself. But life decided to throw me a mountain, and I can’t do it anymore. I fucking deserve an escape pass more that he does. Bastard.”  
   
“That’s not it,” Antonio replies calmly. He turns to his pan, and slides off the eggs onto a waiting plate. “I just think that you still have your whole life ahead of you. I don’t want to pull you into my mess, force you to make this decision to… _jump_ with me just because I didn’t have the courage to do it alone so many times before.”  
   
“Well, you fucking idiot, if I remember correctly, I pulled _you_ into this mess. I was the one who first posted in that forum, you were the idiot who first replied, and now we’re here. And we’re finishing what we started. _Capisci_?”   
   
Even if he isn’t facing me, I can still see a smile cross Antonio’s lips. “Ah, I guess there’s no stopping you then.”  
   
“You fucking got that right.” I tell him though a worrying thought starts to rise in me: I’m not really as sure about this whole suicide pact crap as Antonio thinks anymore. And it’s mostly- _entirely_ -his fault (and mostly- _entirely_ -for his sake).  
   


\---

 **  
_(7:30 am)_  
**  
   
Antonio hands me a paper bag even if he had only promised me toast. So now I am walking back to my apartment, not entirely sure how given that I’ve never been in this area before but I have the whole day to find out anyways. A paper bag with a ham and egg sandwich is in my right hand, and a crumpled up note is tightly fisted in the other.  
   
_Call me tomorrow_ , Antonio had said as he handed me the note bearing his number, and _call me_ can have a million different meanings in a million different contexts, but I knew the context of this _call me_ perfectly well. It doesn’t stop me from wishing it was a _call me_ of an entirely different context however.  
   
_Don’t do it._  
   
Stop stealing the words from out of my mouth, you bastard.  
   


\---

 

 **_December 31, 20XX (6:00pm)_  
**  
   
You think that you have a hundred and million things to do at the last day of your life. But more than half a day has passed, and all I’ve done is lie down in my bed and stare at the empty ceiling.  
   
_What do people do when they know that their last moments are fast approaching?_ A suicide note? I’m not good with words but…. I sit up suddenly, and grab my sketchpad and pencil from the dresser beside my bed. I flip furiously to an empty page and start drawing.  
   
I sketch an oval, rough lines for hair, empty eyes. And then I start shading, filling in the shadows of the cheekbones and the neck, the eyes suddenly coming to life until I am staring back at my monochrome self. _Cracks_ , I suddenly think. I then start drawing lined cracks all over my face, jagged lines because I am nothing but an empty broken vase, just existing. _But even just for a day, someone made this broken vase come to life._  
   
I stare at my broken self once I am done. Someone had tried his best to put me back together even if he barely knew why I broke in the first place; even if he was cracked and broken himself. But it’s too late for me; _all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again_.  
   


\---

 **  
_(8:00 pm)_  
**  
   
Finally at eight I assume that it is now a perfectly acceptable time to call Antonio. I pick up my cell and call Antonio. After seven rings, I am about to assume that he is busier than me and won’t be picking up but he does at the last minute.  
   
_Hello?_  
   
“I’m coming over so better prepare some fucking good food, alright?”  
   
   
**  
_(10:00 pm)_  
**  
   
I arrive at Antonio’s apartment, carrying two boxes filled with cans of paint. Antonio stares at me and then down at the boxes and then back at me until I finally snap at him, “Well what the fuck are you waiting for? Help me bastard!” So Antonio takes the two boxes from my hands; I can feel my own arms sighing gratefully in relief.  
   
Antonio is about to set the boxes down in front of the coach but I stop him. “In the bedroom,” I order him. He complies even if in all honestly, I have no right to be ordering him around in his own home.  
   
I follow him as he finally places the paint in front of a wall in his bedroom. “What are these for?” he asks me, an eyebrow arched upwards perfectly in curiosity.  
   
I smirk and rub my hands together excitedly. I can feel color and paint and excitement pulsing in my nerves. “This is Lovino Vargas’ last art project. Pretentious abstract mural, version 2.”  
   
Antonio gapes at me. “My landlord will kill me!”  
   
I shrug as I bring out the paint cans from the boxes and arrange them neatly in a row in front of the bare wall. “You’ll be dead anyways before he does, remember? Now where is that delicious _homemade_ dinner you prepared for this special night?”  
   
Antonio looks at me, confused. “I didn’t promise any-,” he starts, but I glare at him ferociously to shut him up.  
   
He raises his hands up in mock surrender, laughing. “Fine, fine, I’ll go get something for you, Maestro Lovino.”  
   


\---

  
Antonio leaves me to make dinner as I arrange the cans fussily in front of the wall. As soon as he closes the door behind me, I stop and kneeling on the bare floor, I think:  
   
(I am standing in the balcony with Antonio while he is smoking a cigarette, watching the way his graceful fingers bring the cigarette up to his mouth, and the curled trail of smoke leaving his lips. And I will find it difficult- _impossible_ -to look away, but I do, eventually. And then, without looking at him, I tell him, _I’ve always imagined you as an angel_ , and I can already hear his beautiful caramel laugh ringing out in the piercing silence of the night. Then I climb the railing, balance on it with the balls of my feet, my back to the darkness and the night and the unfathomable below and my eyes on his bright green ones. And suddenly, I realize no, I cannot do this to you. I will not cut off your wings. But he will still ask anyways, _together?_ But no, I’m sorry Antonio, but I will go alone because contrary to what you think, you are not as broken as I am. And fuck logic, fuck the laws of physics but before I go I will lean forward and kiss your lips first, Antonio-because I’ve always wanted to do that. And it will be the best fucking moment of my life.)  
   
And then suddenly the door opens, and my reverie is rudely interrupted. I look up and glare at Antonio but he only grins at me while showing me a plastic bag. “Strawberry vodka,” he says proudly. I involuntarily make a face. “What the fuck,” I tell him. “What about dinner? And that tastes like shit.”  
   
He sits down, cross-legged, beside me and pointedly ignores my insult against strawberry vodka. He points with his chin at the cans by my feet. “Well, let’s start this art project, Maestro Lovino.”  
   


\---

 

 **_(11:30 pm)_  
**  
   
We are drunk on strawberry vodka before we finally start painting. I tell Antonio to just throw shit-and by shit I mean paint and not, you know, actual shit-at the wall because in an abstract painting, everything can be intentionally vague and muddy and pretentiously metaphorical, and people will always find the meaning of life in your splatters anyways. So Antonio drops the paintbrush and starts throwing paint at the wall.  
   
And after more than an hour, the bare wall has become an explosion of color, and Antonio and I are on the floor, laughing like we’ve never laughed before. And I first regret only learning about how exhilarating laughing can be now, right before the last, but then, thank goodness at least I discovered it before it was too late. Goodbye potential epitaph however ( _Lovino Vargas, the man who never laughed_ ).   
   
I grab a paintbrush and dip it in bloody red paint. Then in block letters, I write _FUCK_ at the center of it all. I glance at Antonio. “My catchphrase,” I tell him smugly. Antonio laughs even harder.  
   
And then, without warning, he dips his fingers into the blood-red paint and swipes at my face. I stare at him, mouth open but Antonio is only grinning cheekily at me. But soon I recover my wits. “A declaration of war, is it, you bastard?” I tell him as I dip my fingers into the nearest paint can-forest green. I swipe at his face as well but he is ready, and soon we have a full-blown paint war in our hands.  
   
And then it is not only the wall that is full of color, but also the once immaculate floor and Antonio’s shirt and arms and face as well-and I’m sure, mine too. I hide a full bucket of aquamarine paint behind me, thinking of throwing it at him once he approaches: a guerilla attack. But Antonio must have known what I was planning to do because he suddenly lunges at me, and I lose my balance and fall backwards.  
   
And Antonio falls too, on top of me, and I find myself staring back at his emerald green eyes and at his lips and-  
   
-and then suddenly, we can hear the neighbors counting loudly,  
   
_Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen._  
   
Antonio tries to stand up but I grab his shirt impulsively, and he falls back down. “We got distracted. Do you remember Lovino, what we’re supposed to do tonight?” he whispers huskily. “No,” I reply. “You forgot. It means it’s not meant to be. Don’t do it.”  
   
“No,” Antonio starts looking around wildly. “If I don’t do it now, I’ll never get the courage to do it again. And that boy will haunt me forever.”  
   
_Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen._  
   
“Tomorrow,” I say urgently. “We can do it tomorrow.” He looks back down at me hesitantly, and I think _it’s now or never, Lovino_.  
   
And so I pull him down and kiss his lips. And they taste like strawberry vodka-but only the good parts-and cigarettes but most of all, they taste of Antonio and his warm smile and caramel laugh.  
   


\---

  
I do not know how we did it but somehow, we reach the bed without losing our hold of each other. Antonio’s lips are on my neck, sucking greedily, while I place my hands under his shirt, feeling the firm muscles of his chest, the beating of his heart, before I carefully slip his shirt over his head and fling it to the floor.  
   
_Ten. Nine. Eight._  
   
And then my lips find their way back to Antonio’s as I feel him trying to unclasp the buckle of my belt because I like the way they taste against mine, because like an addiction, I must have his lips against mine all the time. My pants soon follow his shirt on the floor, and then his lips move away from mine. But even before I can start feeling disappointed, Antonio starts nibbling on my earlobe, licking my ear every now and then with his tongue, and all I can think of is _that tongue, somewhere else!_ And I moan involuntarily from the sheer pleasure of it all.  
   
_Five. Four. Three._  
   
I cannot keep my hands off Antonio, and the same goes for him, and soon the pile of clothes grow larger at the foot of the bed until we are both wearing nothing but our socks. And Antonio removes those too with his foot, making sure to rub his leg _in just the right way_ against mine.  
   
_Two. One._  
   
Zero. And then there are zero layers between us, but just our skin, warm _and alive!_ against one another. And my pulse, beating against his.  
   
(And then Antonio kisses me again, deeper than before, his hand moving down slowly, and I can think of nothing else.)  
   


\---

 

 **_January 1, 20XX (6:00 am)_  
**  
   
I wake up as the rays of warm sunlight hit my face. I raise my hands to shield my eyes against the blinding light when my hand brushes against bare skin. Bare skin that is certainly not mine.  
   
I sit upright then, looking wildly around. There is the wall, an explosion of color and shapes and patterns and the neatly-written cuss word right in the middle of the mess. Paint all over the floor, bottles toppled over each other at the corner and our clothes by the bedpost.  
   
And Antonio is sleeping beside me, also naked under the covers. I had never seen him asleep before, and so I lie back down beside him, holding my breath and watching: his long eyelashes fluttering softly against his cheekbone, his chest rising up and down in perfect, peaceful rhythmic motion, his mouth slightly open in a half-smile. I smile myself as I remember where that mouth had been last night.  
   
I turn to lie on my back, making sure to lie very close to Antonio so I can feel his breath on my neck. _We sure got distracted last night, didn’t we, Antonio?_ I remember last night, my promise of _we can do it tomorrow_.  But weirdly enough, I don’t feel like throwing myself off the balcony anymore. In fact, I don’t feel like I’m just existing. If only for this day, I actually feel alive.  
   
Maybe that feeling of wanting to escape this world would come back again sooner or later. Maybe it hasn’t even left for Antonio. But for now, I am relishing being alive; my broken vase can shatter some other time but for now it’s glued pretty well together.  
   
Beside me, I can feel Antonio shift position in his sleep. I whisper to him, “Your apartment is pretty trashed, I should say.”  
   
Antonio mumbles back, “My landlord will kill me.” He’s probably not aware of what he’s saying, the idiot.  
   
“Wellyoucanliveinmyapartment,” I say quickly, before my courage leaves me.  
   
At this Antonio suddenly opens his eyes and stares at me, wide-eyed in surprise. I look away, blushing from his piercing gaze. “I-I mean, I have to watch you, you know! As the one who initiated this suicide pact of ours, I am declaring it postponed, for now. And I can’t have you agreeing on a suicide pact with other people while ours is still in effect! I-I mean, fuck! What am I saying?” I grab the blanket roughly from his hold and cover my face with it.  
   
I can hear Antonio trying to coax me out of the blankets, but I stay under it, ignoring him. Despite my best efforts not to, I smile anyways. Antonio and I, we are broken vases, but we can be broken together.  
   
   


\---

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think I had some semblance of a plot going on there at the start but I lost it somewhere. But I was like I'm already 5000 words in this, might as well finish this. And then it ballooned to 8000+ words of melodrama and "angst". Whoops? Anyways, I was inspired to write this by a manga I read before that contained four one shots about suicide. The other three were crap but the first one was actually pretty good. It had a group of teenagers who planned a suicide pact online, became friends, got distracted by alcohol and general shenanigans, and ended up not going through with the suicide anymore (it was actually pretty tragic at the end though but I won't spoil it anymore). This was specifically inspired by a part there where the main female lead was out with one of the guys and she was thinking 'maybe in different circumstances, we would have been out on a date instead of out planning to die'. Or something like that. Antonio's melodramatic backstory was actually the said guy's backstory. If this manga sounds familiar to anyone, tell me because I honestly can't remember the title anymore orz;.
> 
> What else can I say about this fic? This is actually just a bare skeleton of what I'd dreamed of writing when I first thought of this premise D|. I really wish I could write better gaaah. I'll be writing a lot of secret santa fluff after this fic which are hopefully all better than this orz.  
> 


End file.
